Prototype 30
by Andante Cavatina
Summary: His thirtieth birthday isn't the best, but it's something. Oneshot, slight Franada.


" _At thirty, you finally start to catch up to those dreams_

 _you've been chasing for the last ten years."_

 _Bonnidette Lantz_

Francis wakes up slowly, like he always does, his mind returning to consciousness bit by bit. He sees the sun glaring bright white through his eyelids, smells the lingering stench of alcohol and vomit. His throat is drier than the Sahara, and he can feel his heartbeat coming from his head. The classic results of over-drinking and over-partying. Was there a party? Francis tries to sit up and get at least a vague idea of what happened last night, only to stop midway because the combination of moving and thinking is way too much for his hungover mind. _Merde._ Groaning, he slowly leans back into an uncomfortable semi-reclining position.

There was a bar, he remembers. Off-tune singing, some weird balloons, _lots_ of cheap liquor. Antonio was there, Gilbert too… There was a mysterious blonde, maybe someone he took home? Messy hair, frowning face, thick eyebrows… Oh. _Oh._ Definitely didn't bring that one back to the apartment. Just the faintest whiff of something perverse and he would get knocked into the middle of next week. Francis chuckles to himself. If his own hangover was this bad, just the thought of Arthur's was painfully hilarious. But in all seriousness, he hopes the Brit hadn't gotten himself arrested or something stupid like that.

Sighing, the Frenchman sluggishly attempts to walk to the kitchen for some breakfast, stopping every now and then to curse his aggravating headache. He is taking a sip of coffee and about to start on a little pastry when the phone rings, making him flinch at the harsh noise.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he says. With the receiver by his face, he can smell the stale alcohol on his breath. Even his own voice sounds far too loud, but it's nothing compared to Antonio's.

" _Mi amigo,_ you're awake!" He winces as the words blare into his ear. "How's your head?"

Francis lets out a tired grunt in response. The Spaniard only laughs and continues rambling on at ninety miles an hour. "Of course, considering how much you drank. Arthur's totally wasted, but Gilbert's perfectly fine; you know how he can hold his liquor. Anyways, you've got to get better soon. The whole gang's having a party for your birthday! Say, seven-ish? I had reservations at this nice place down by the water, but Feli insisted you come to Roma's…"

Meanwhile, Francis tries to process what Antonio is saying. Alcohol, friends, dinner… _Birthday?_

"Antonio, _mon ami,_ you must be mistaken. Today is not my birthday."

The Spaniard sounds slightly puzzled. "Sure it is," he argues. "Last night was your pre-birthday celebration, and today is—oh no, please tell me your birthday is July 14th. 'Cause otherwise I've been a really bad friend all these years, like for your twenty-first birthday, when I dared you to flirt with Roderich, and Elizaveta went after you with that frying pan of hers. _Dios míos,_ Francis, I'm so sorry!"

Francis blinks, waiting for his mind to catch up. "Wait, today is the 14th? July 14th?" He glances at his calendar. So it's that time of year again. " _Mon dieu…_ Oh God, Antonio, I'm thirty. I am thirty years old."

His friend stays silent for a moment. "Well, I'm sure it's not that bad," he offers. Francis can hear the strained grin and snorts, rolling his eyes. "Besides, me and Gil are here for you. Whenever you need it, you just give us a ring."

"Thank you, Antonio." Francis attempts a smile, but ends up frowning instead. At least the headache is on the back of his mind now.

"No problem." The phone line suddenly falls silent, except for the faint sound of someone yelling rapid Italian profanity. "Hey, sorry Francis, but I gotta go. See you at the party! _Adios, amigo_!"

" _Au revoir_ ," Francis murmurs. He hangs up, and returns to his breakfast, now cooled down to room temperature. Sighing, the Frenchman picks up his coffee, absentmindedly tilting it about and watching the brown liquid swirl around.

The party. Gilbert would come, definitely. Antonio would bring Lovino, who would bring Feliciano; Ludwig and Kiku would be invited too. So, two crazy Italians, a stoic German, and a soft-spoken Japanese, who, by the way, would probably bring his cat-loving napper of a boyfriend too. Great. Could this party _get_ any better?

Oh, and of course, Arthur would be coming. Arthur and his "friend," Alfred. Francis scoffs. Friends? Sure. And France's national flag is painted on his behind… Well, maybe. He tends to do crazy things when he gets drunk. Besides, he knows _l'amour_ when he sees it.

Then, that Canadian he met on the bus a few weeks ago: Matthew. He had invited him too, but now it seemed suicidal. Francis would have to introduce the shy accountant to his crazy ragtag group of friends, and most likely scare him away in the process. They were just so different… too different? Was he even interested? Anticipation and anxiety and a million other emotions bubble up in his stomach. _Mon dieu._ Francis takes a big gulp of his espresso, half because he's thirsty from the hangover, and half because if he tries hard enough, he can pretend it's a glass of bourbon.

While he's being bitter and all, Francis figures he might as well start on his life story. It's been eight years since college, and what has he done? Not much. Working various odd jobs to support his writing– currently, a waiter by day and an author by night (at least, the ones he doesn't spend drunk). Living in a tiny apartment, with nothing major published and just enough cash to pay for food and rent. A reckless teenager in a man's body, wasting his life away on parties and alcohol and one-night stands. It seems he's set on burying himself under a pile of crap.

Fed-up, irritated, and finally understanding how Arthur must feel all the time, Francis pops a painkiller into his mouth and drowns it down with the last of his coffee. He sits around for a while, watching some TV and fiddling around with his old laptop. He writes a few paragraphs, edits furiously, then deletes everything and turns it off. Finally, Francis plops himself onto the couch with a wet towel over his eyes, and tries to take a nap. Sleep must be better than facing a midlife crisis ten years too early. He dreams of a million birthday wishes and one very alcoholic drink.

…

The evening is not off to a good start. First of all, he got to Roma's ten minutes late, panting slightly and covered with a sheen of sweat because the air conditioning in the taxi decided to break down in mid-July. Second, there was and is no sign of a heartbreakingly beautiful Canadian anywhere. Finally, Arthur rudely refused Francis' perfectly innocent romantic advice, despite the fact that the Brit was completely failing in his attempt to get alone with Alfred… who is still obliviously consuming all the alcohol at the party.

Now, Francis is moping at a corner of the bar, slowly sipping a glass of wine he'd managed to steal from under Alfred's nose. Oddly enough, the others seem too preoccupied to notice his pity party, but he doesn't mind, only continues to drown his sorrows in wine, which is much too little in comparison. His eyes wander around the room, always looking, watching, searching. But no gleam of those almost violet eyes, not a trace of that curl of hair. He sighs and starts to reach for another sip, but his fingers curl back halfway. Damn Francis 30. He wants Francis 29 back.

…

Dinner was relatively normal. For this crowd at least.

On his left, Alfred rambles about an incredibly stupid topic, Kiku agrees, and Arthur yells his head off. Further down the table, Feliks is telling Ivan off while Toris, Eduard, and Raivis cower and Yao unsuccessfully tries to placate the group with more pasta. To the right, Gilbert starts an argument with Elizabeta, and between them, Roderich daintily eats his alfredo as if nothing is wrong. Feliciano is offering everyone seconds and thirds of his signature pasta, and Alfred is on his fifth portion. Ludwig has given up on any semblance of order.

Business as usual then.

Francis longs for another glass of wine, but only God knows where Alfred has stashed the alcohol. The Frenchman feels so isolated from the others, even if it is his party. Normally, he would be socializing and waltzing around, purring complements and teases. But no, he must be getting old or something. Matthew has yet to arrive.

Once, Antonio drops by for a brief visit, albeit with a reluctant Lovino following. The Spaniard gives Francis a warm hug and slips a manila envelope into the Frenchman's hands; his Italian boyfriend immediately frowns. Antonio whispers, "Hey, _amigo,_ got you what you asked for last night."

Francis blinks. All his memories of last night are pretty hazy. He's not even sure why he's smiling. Maybe because he's bored, or desperate, but most likely both. Lovino's scowl increases tenfold, and he forcefully pulls the Spaniard away. Leaving Francis alone. Again.

He fiddles with the loosely tied package and opens it slightly, revealing a pack of aspirins and a stack of handwritten pages entitled, "How to Confess to Your Crush" by Antonio Carriedo.

Francis sighs melodramatically. Oh, Antonio.

…

The party is escalating quickly, probably because Alfred finally decided to share his liquor. He and Gilbert found an old karaoke machine in the closet and are now fighting for bragging rights. To be honest, both have horrible voices and no sense of pitch; the alcohol isn't helping. Roderich would have blood coming out of his ears if it was gentlemanly. But it's not, so the Austrian just buries his head in his arms, waiting for Elizabeta to get riled up and beat them to death with her frying pan.

Francis is back in his old spot at the bar, this time armed with another glass of wine and a backup bottle, already half-empty. He watches his friends and their shenanigans, almost wistful that he doesn't have the heart to join them. By now, he's given up hope of Matthew coming and has resigned himself to this old barstool until it's time to go home. He's already stowed his presents in a waiting cab for tomorrow, because he's just not in the mood for gifts right now.

Soon, the party will start to wind down, and everyone will give Francis their last birthday wishes before being bundled into various taxis by those sober enough to walk (i.e. Ludwig, Kiku, etc.). He'll stumble into the apartment, collapse onto the bed, and sleep like there's no tomorrow. Good plan.

…

Two knocks echo into the living room. Francis is sprawled on the couch. His bedroom is too stuffy for his taste, and the little plug-in fan running by his foot isn't doing much good. He stumbles to the door, muttering something incoherent in French.

"Oh. _Matthieu._ " The adorable curl, those gorgeous eyes, that modest smile. Perfection. Francis runs a hand through his own tangled hair, and wishes he didn't drink so much before. For all he knows, this could be just a cruel dream, a trick of his imagination. But if he's dreaming, _mon dieu,_ please don't let him wake up.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the party. My boss needed me to put in some numbers. But…" The Canadian offers him a small smile and a perfectly wrapped gift. "Happy Birthday, Francis."

He doesn't reply, only takes the present slowly and stares. Half of him wants to kiss Matthew full on the lips, and the other half just wants to pass out.

Instead, Francis opens the door wider. "Would you like to come in?"

* * *

 **AN: Depressed Francis, always fun to write. I actually feel like his personality relates to England's a little more than he would like...**

 **Reviews are much appreciated. Hope you enjoyed!**


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